CHAPTER 53: CHAPTER 53 — THE HIGH COMMAND CONVENES

The circular chamber of the Republic High Command was a cathedral built for war. It was cold, immaculate, and deliberately designed so no voice ever rose louder than the polished marble beneath it.

There were twelve seats for twelve figures.

Twelve arbiters of the Republic’s survival or decay.

The chamber door sealed behind the final member, locking with a hiss that echoed off the high ceiling. Holographic tactigraphs, that shimmered with a sign of an ability being used,hovered over the center table, projecting the latest situation report from Grim Hollow: the explosion, the food vault’s destruction, the civilian panic, the subsequent audit, and the impending evacuation order issued by Captain Atheon.

For several seconds, no one spoke.

Then the Duke, lifted his gloved hand, as though brushing away dust.

Duke Veridan Corvayne.

A tall man with a posture carved from granite and eyes that regarded everything with calculated disinterest. His soul talent was rumored to manipulate density—making the air itself feel heavier around him. His family was old, ancient even, with a lineage tracing back to the Republic’s Founding Tribunes. His defining trait was simple:

He believed the Republic did not bleed. It merely shed inconveniences.All humans in the republic to him were either burnt by fire or burnt from it.

"This is... disappointing," the Duke murmured, scanning the hovering projections. "Grim Hollow falls to logistical failure. Again."

The word again curled like a whip crack.

Across the table, the three barons exchanged a glance. Even among nobility, the Duke’s disdain could peel paint from stone.

A general cleared his throat. "With respect, Your Grace, it was not a simple logistical failure. Evidence confirms the umbral cult’s sabotage."

Duke Corvayne tapped the table once, signaling to a man at the edge of the room. Then the hologram expanded, displaying the vault’s melted hinges, the char patterns, the short-range accelerant patterns.

"Sabotage," he repeated. "Always sabotage. Always external factors. Never internal incompetence."

He waved his hand dismissively. "Even now, your own captain admits the paperwork was forged, oversight was lax, and the administrative corps were asleep at their desks."

The general stiffened.

The Duke leaned back, silver hair catching the glow of the tactigraph. "If we cannot trust our lower officers to count crates, why expect them to hold choke points?"

Cold silence followed.

Baron Aleron Fesch.

A broad-shouldered man with a meticulously groomed beard and the eyes of someone who always imagined himself center stage. His character flaw was his most obvious trait:

He thought war was something to be directed, and he was the one meant to direct it.

He spoke next, fingers adorned with silver rings tapping together.

"Let us remember," Baron Fesch said smoothly, "Grim Hollow was never one of our prized outposts. It was a border-grade installation with aging infrastructure and limited strategic elegance. The collapse of its food stores, while regrettable, does not cripple the Republic."

"It stalls the northern campaign," one of the generals countered.

Baron Fesch flashed a smile. "Campaigns stall. Campaigns resume. But shifting public morale? That is a more delicate battle. Grim Hollow’s fall can be reframed as a heroic evacuation. A calculated transition. A moment of strategic resilience."

The Duke snorted.

"Only you," Corvayne said, "would look at starvation and see a chance to improve your speeches."

Baron Fesch only smiled wider.

Baroness Ilena Vorhast.

Thin, pale, perpetually unamused. She had the reputation of a woman who held grudges so long she forgot their origins but never lost their edge.

She leaned forward now, voice sharp and brittle.

"We warned the Senate about the Covenant’s infiltration capacities five months ago. We warned them recruitment cycles were too slow. We warned them the northern front was stretched too thin.This is why I’ll always say we should scrap the need for those men in suits. Talking with our neighbors only reschedules conflict for a later date. Why do we delegate with our enemies, our neighboring countries, as they try to stab us at every turn. Power should be the only metric used to run an empire "

Her eyes narrowed. "And what did they say? ’Confidence is high.’"

She mimicked the phrase with venom.

"Confidence," she repeated. "Confidence is not a strategy."

The hologram flickered, showing the remaining rations in Grim Hollow.

"Twelve percent," she read aloud. "Twelve. The captain is right to abandon the outpost. Anyone who argues otherwise is chasing ghosts."

The Duke’s eyebrow rose slightly—approval, or irritation, it was hard to tell.

Baron Calder Nox.

Younger than the others by two decades. His features sharp, angular, framed by a fall of dark hair. His presence was unnervingly calm, and his voice rarely rose above a whisper.

Calder spoke without inflection.

"The Covenant targeted Grim Hollow because it was vulnerable. Their strategy was sound. Collapse supply. Disrupt morale. Force redeployment. They cripple us without firing a shot."

The table shifted uncomfortably.

"And now?" Duke Corvayne asked.

"Now we do the same," Baron Nox replied. "We cut our losses. We salvage the north’s timetable. We redeploy forces from Hollow to Vesper Ridge. We reduce civilian burden. We triage."

"Triage the frontier?" a colonel asked, scandalized.

"Yes," Calder said. "If it is dying, let it die."

The colonel swallowed his reply.

Count Halren Myr.

Slender, elegant, wearing mourning-black despite no recent bereavement. A sentimentalist hiding under layers of cold logic.

He traced a finger along the table’s rim before speaking.

"We cannot dissolve Grim Hollow entirely," Count Myr said. "Its symbolic weight exceeds its strategic weight. It represents the Republic’s first push northward, the first victory against the blizzard tides. To lose it without ceremony—without narrative—would embolden the Cult."

Baron Fesch nodded vigorously.

The Duke rolled his eyes.

Count Myr continued, "We establish it as a skeleton post, as Atheon proposed. A small garrison. A symbolic flag. A reminder that the Republic does not retreat—it adapts."

A general muttered under his breath, "Retreating with extra steps."

Count Myr ignored him.

The tactigraph dimmed for a moment before reshaping into a detailed breakdown of Atheon’s report—food salvage estimates, casualty numbers, logistical projections, the expected duration Grim Hollow could survive without reinforcement.

For a long while, the High Command reviewed the data silently.

No one asked how the soldiers felt.

No one mentioned the wounded.

No one acknowledged the civilians caught between hunger and winter.

They debated strategy.

Optics.

Political implications.

Whether Atheon’s tone in his report was "appropriately deferential."

Not once did they ask if Grim Hollow could be saved.

The Republic High Command did not rescue outposts.

It managed them.

Finally, the leading official folded his hands.

"Enough."

All voices fell silent.

"Let us vote," he said. "Abandon or reinforce."

The holographic table displayed two glowing sigils: WITHDRAW and STABILIZE.

One by one, the nobles cast their votes.

The rest of the council followed.

The sigils shifted.

Decision: WITHDRAW — 11 votes to 1.

Only a single general voted to stabilize Grim Hollow.

He looked around the room, jaw clenched as the verdict settled on the chamber like frost.

"So this is how we answer an attack on our own soil," he said bitterly.

Duke Corvayne replied with icy calm.

"This is how we answer inefficiency. The Covenant did not defeat Grim Hollow. Incompetence defeated Grim Hollow."

He rose from his seat.

"And incompetence," he added, "is a plague we cure by amputation."

Baron Fesch clapped his hands. "Then let us prepare a statement for the Senate. I have no desire for my brother and his politicians to undermine us with their masked jabs and polished venom. I want something worthy; something stirring. Something that transforms this retreat into a deliberate maneuver, not an embarrassment."

"We are just adjusting," Count Myr corrected softly.

"A retreat is still a retreat," Baroness Vorhast hissed. "Call it by its name."

The Duke turned toward her.

"Names are irrelevant. Results are eternal."

With that, he exited the chamber, cloak trailing like a shadow.

One by one, the others followed.

Their faces held no grief.

No urgency.

No empathy.

To them, Grim Hollow was neither home nor tragedy.

It was merely a mark on a map—one that could be erased without consequence.

Outside the chamber, aides and officers waited anxiously for orders they already feared.

The Duke passed them without slowing.

"Inform Captain Atheon," he said. "The High Command has authorized a full evacuation of the region. No reinforcements will be deployed. They are to maintain only a symbolic presence until the withdrawal is completed. Begin assembling all closure reports, operational summaries, and final administrative files immediately."

"Yes, Your Grace!"

The barons issued their orders in quick succession.

Baron Fesch: "Draft an official statement for the public. Highlight the courage and exceptional conduct of our forces. Minimize any reference to casualties or setbacks. The narrative must reflect resolve, not weakness."

And just like that...

Grim Hollow’s fate was sealed.

Not with sorrow, ceremony nor resistance.

But with the cold, calculated indifference of those who believed the Republic was too vast to feel the loss of a single outpost.